


trying to fall in the opposite direction

by anotherdirtycomputer



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, Fenris is Bad at Feelings, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Nonbinary Hawke (Dragon Age), Other, Polyamory, and for the lack of isabela, because it's fenris, established polyamory, kirkwall's favorite polycule, not entirely but... it's fluffy enough, polycule, sorry the relationship tags are so much ajkslfs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdirtycomputer/pseuds/anotherdirtycomputer
Summary: Somehow, Fenris has found himself in love with not one mage, but three of them. He struggles to overcome his fears.





	trying to fall in the opposite direction

**Author's Note:**

> i've been writing this for a while, but finally managed to wrap it up! i hoped to have an isabela bit in here, but i couldn't work it in without it being out-of-place and clunky, so i cut it out and might build it into something new for another fic. hopefully the three bits of this fic work together well enough, as well. if not, hopefully it's still a fun read!
> 
> shout out to coulson_is_an_avenger for always reading my fics beforehand and giving such sweet comments !!! 💕 i love you !!! 💕

Despite the scratch of stubble, Fenris finds himself pressing his mouth against Anders’ again, humming against the mage’s lips adoringly, “You are a fool.”

Anders laughs against him, the heat of his breath comfortable and strange against Fenris’ face. He is surprised, once again, to find the feeling so pleasant; the stubble, the breath, the weight of their legs tangled between them as they both lean forward to kiss… For so long, he believed this to be lost to him.

Fenris is happy to be proven wrong.

“A fool for you, perhaps,” the mage whispers.

With a groan, Fenris turns his head, pulling away from Anders’ searching lips like polarized magnets, chasing and chaste.

“That’s a dreadful line,” he says. Although he is glaring, he cannot help the way the side of his mouth curves upwards. “Just _awful_. Even Merrill could have given a better one.”

Anders’ eyes are bright and warm where they stare into Fenris’ own, those intense brown eyes alight with laughter. “Merrill’s lines aren’t any better than mine!” His voice is high in protest, but his smile is wide and charming. “She’s as sappy as I am. Worse, even.”

“So she is,” Fenris sighs. He falls backwards on Anders’ cot, careful for fear of breaking it. It’s a cheap thing, but what else can be expected? Anders is a homeless apostate who charges nothing for his services. Where would he even put a good bed if he had one?

Anders breaks Fenris out of his thoughts abruptly by falling heavily against him. Despite the momentary panic, Fenris is comfortable.

“All my lovers are sappy.” Fenris continues, voice low and fond. “I should get new ones.”

His face pressed into Fenris’ old tunic, Anders laughs, the sound of it muffled. “New ones? Or just more for the collection?”

Fenris’ mouth twitches again and then curves into a real smile. “New ones. Otherwise, you’d all have them, too,” He runs a hand over Anders’ dirty, knotted hair. “And you’d make them as sentimental as you’ve made me.”

The contented sigh that leaves Anders is such a rare one, it makes Fenris close his eyes, breathing deeply against a sudden surge of emotion.

“I love you,” Anders breathes.

These words are rare between them - true as they are, the differences between them still push them apart. Justice still roils under Anders’ skin and fear and anger beneath Fenris’. They are too similar in opposite ways. These moments mean so much to Fenris, to them both, but they sometimes feel impossible to grasp.

“I,” With difficulty, Fenris swallows around the lump in his throat. “I love you, too.”

He soothes Anders’ hair still, wondering briefly if he should invite him to the mansion. Fenris has a bath there; it takes a while to fill and the runes that warm the water do not always do very well, but it may do Anders some good… Being in the mansion causes more arguments than the clinic, however.

Here, Fenris can remember that Anders is good - that he uses his magic to heal others for no other gain than the knowledge that people will be well. In the mansion, the poison inside him reminds him that Anders would have done well sitting in a mansion or manor or townhouse, surrounded by fellow Magisters, laughing with them as slaves pour him wine. As Fenris pours him wine.

Fenris closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

Anders is good. Anders uses his magic to heal.

Anders is not like Danarius. He is a fool, for many reasons, but he is kind, and bright, and lovely, and wants freedom as much as Fenris does. He wants freedom for everyone, not just mages.

Anders begins to press kisses to Fenris’ shoulder, humming a song that Fenris does not recognize in between kisses. It is a sweet gesture, and one that fills the silence, distracting Fenris and reminding him much better than his own thoughts.

“I love you,” Fenris repeats.

Anders leans up on his elbows to gaze at him adoringly. Beneath them, the cot creaks threateningly. “You don’t have to whisper it, love.”

“I know.” But he does. Anything louder may rouse the spirit - the demon - within Anders; or worse yet, rouse the thing housed inside Fenris, put there by Danarius’ abuse.

-

Merrill titters anxiously, as she often does, even when she is not anxious. “Oh, it needs a flame to start it,” Her voice, too, is worried, and Fenris raises a brow at the sound. “Have you anything with you, Fenris? Flint and steel, isn’t it?”

“Are you not a witch?” Fenris shifts from his left foot to his right, his arms crossed over his front. The word ‘witch’ always leaves his mouth so much kinder than ‘mage’; by now, it has almost become a term of endearment, reserved for Merrill only. Sometimes, when he is lucky, Fenris forgets the word has any other meaning. “Why not start the thing yourself?”

From her place kneeling by the fireplace, Merrill glances back at him, then avoids her eyes carefully. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Would that be-” She turns back and meets his eyes once more. “May I, Fenris?”

Fenris shakes his head, sighing. “You need not my permission, sweet. But it will not light itself.”

“Yes, of course.” Merrill nods quickly, putting her hand against the meager stack of wood. “Erm, thank you.”

Then flame surrounds her palm, gentle and bright, and the logs in the mansion’s half-broken fireplace are burning, the licks of flame jumping in time with Fenris’ suddenly off-beat heart. He tempers down the panic with practiced ease.

They’ll get an earful from Aveline tomorrow, perhaps an entire lecture if the nobles complain enough about the smoke that will leave the mansion, but it is cold tonight, and neither Fenris or Merrill have terribly good blankets.

Merrill’s home in the alienage has no proper closing windows, even, only high holes in the walls that the cold seeps through. Before anyone else could offer, Fenris invited her over; to keep her from freezing in the night, but also to steal some time alone with her. He has missed her company.

Hawke rarely brings them both out anymore. That anger in Fenris is triggered the most easily by blood magic and Merrill is very liberal in her use of it. He can handle it now and feel safe with her and want her here, so long as she does only small, necessary spells.

His heart tames slowly, even now, but he knows Merrill will not harm him.

“Want me to hold the bread over the fire?” Her voice is so small and wavering, yet she speaks with clarity and strength. Fenris loves the sound of her voice. “I won’t burn it! I hope. But it may be nicer than cold bread, on a night like this.”

Fenris nods. “A good idea.”

He brings the stale bread over and sits close by her as she warms the loaf. It’s a bit awkward being alone with Merrill, because Merrill is an awkward person, unarguably, but the tense of her shoulders and the slight worry in her brow speak where she will not.

A week ago, while playing cards in the Hanged Man, Fenris had started an argument. It was rare for him to truly start arguments - he was more reactionary than truly spiteful, but regardless, he’s been feeling an ass ever since.

“I am… sorry, Merrill.” He says to her, voice low and serious.

“Sorry?” She blinks her bright, halla-wide eyes at him. The red makeup usually present around them is gone, washed away in Fenris’ bath a short while ago, before the chill of night made bathing a chore. “Whatever for?”

“I … have been cruel to you. We are lovers. You deserve better than that from me.” He hesitates. “From anyone.”

Merrill bites the inside of her cheek, then seems to remember the bread in her hands. She turns it over, her bright red nails a stark contrast against it, and speaks quietly, “It’s quite alright. I know that… After what they did to you…”

Fenris averts his eyes.

“I’ve never been to Tevinter. I’m lucky that way. But, you have, and things are different there. I know magic makes you uncomfortable - blood magic, especially.” When Fenris’ eyes find her again, he sees she is smiling, a small, sympathetic curve of her mouth, although her eyes don’t quite match. “You’re not the first to hate what I do, Fenris. You’ve not even been the most cruel. But you are the most justified. I can’t hold a grudge.” Her voice is cheery, suddenly, and her smile grows. “At least, not against you.”

She leans towards him, and he reacts too slowly; she kisses his cheek instead of his mouth.

“Anyway! Bread seems good and warm. Care for some?”

Fenris smiles, too, as best he can, but he knows it does not touch his eyes, either. He must be an odd sight.

“Yes. Thank you, Merrill.” He looks at the ground, then back at Merrill, so out of place against the dirty backdrop of the filthy mansion. “ _Thank you_ , Merrill.”

She laughs. “Oh, hush. It’s only bread - your bread, even!” Handing over a piece, she shifts even closer to him, their knees touching. “Hopefully I did alright. Can only do so much for stale bread.”

They eat the bread, talking quietly. Despite Merrill’s insistence that nothing was wrong, Fenris finds the air of the mansion much easier to breathe.

-

It always seems odd to Fenris, how bad Hawke is at hiding their magic. Merrill and Anders are little better, but it makes sense for them; Merrill had never been forced to hide her magic before Kirkwall and Anders is far too proud of the power he was born with (and of surviving the Circle) to truly conceal it.

Hawke, however, was an apostate their entire life, raised by one and alongside another. They lived, even if for a small time, in a small Ferelden town with an active Templar presence. They live now in a Marcher city with a _very_ active Templar presence _and_ they’re in the public eye frequently, whether they want to be or not.

His bafflement finally reaches its peak when Hawke buys robes in Hightown’s market square, then proceeds to hold the robes up against their body not three feet away from a guard to say, “Don’t you think I’ll look good in these?” Just those few words nearly have Fenris’ heart falling out his ass.

Yet, Anders gazes at them with warm eyes, wholly unconcerned by their barefaced admission. “You’ll look amazing, love. You always do.”

“Oh, yes, I think so, too!” Merrill gushes, her hand tightening around Fenris’ own. ( _So you don’t get lost,_ he’d told her, much to Anders and Hawke’s amusement.) “The color goes wonderfully with your eyes. _V_ _ery_ attractive.”

Hawke beams at them, then tucks the robes in with the rest of their things. They are not at all concerned as they close the stuffed bag and fling the strap back over their shoulder.

The guard says nothing. Fenris says nothing. They continue shopping as if nothing happened.

It’s only when they’re walking Merrill back to the alienage, Hawke ahead with Anders as Merrill and himself follow behind, that Fenris finally manages to find the words.

“Hawke… Don’t you think yourself a bit conspicuous?”

Still unperturbed, Hawke steals a backward glance. “Conspicuous?”

“Loudly announcing your purchase of mage robes for yourself in Hightown, of all places? And with a staff at your back - at _all_ your backs. Would it not do better to hide your magic in such a public?”

Before Hawke can reply, Anders’ head snaps towards him. “That _would_ be better, wouldn't it, Fenris? If we pretended we weren’t mages, you wouldn’t have to try so hard to do the same.”

Anger runs hotly through him, tensing his muscles and grinding his teeth. It is a familiar feeling, but he still struggles not to clench his hands into fists so as to avoid cutting Merrill’s hand with his gauntlet.

“You _know_ that is not what I meant,” he growls.

Her wide eyes glancing between them, Merrill anxiously flutters her hands. Despite it, her voice is confident when she speaks. “Oh, you know Fenris is only concerned. He doesn’t want Hawke getting hurt, that’s all. Right, Fenris?”

Is it concern? He tells himself he is merely confused by their brazen lack of fear, astounded by the unabashed recklessness that puts their livelihoods at risk, _frustrated_ by these people he loves and their inability to keep themselves hidden and out of harm’s way.

Oh.

He knows he cannot fight the entire Templar order, if any of his lovers are ever taken the the Circle - or worse, killed for their abilities. There is nothing he can do, should such events come to pass.

Although it dismays him, Fenris knows Anders was not entirely incorrect. He _does_ struggle to accept their magic at times. But, it is not bigotry, like Anders wants to believe. This time, it’s not even his fear of magic or his anger at what mages have done to him. It’s his fear of losing them, all three of them, and his anger at himself for being powerless to protect them.

“I-” He swallows thickly. “Perhaps I am concerned. Is that not expected of me, as your lover?”

Anders doesn’t reply to that, but he has the decency to appear at least a little apologetic.

“It’s sweet that you worry, Fenris.” Hawke glances back at Fenris again, this time with a sad smile on their face. “The three of us are going to be _fine_ , I promise. I hold enough sway here that we shouldn’t have to hide. I…”

Fenris watches them worry their lips, their walk slowing to a stop. “...Yes, Hawke?”

“I’m tired of hiding, is all. You spend so long doing it, it becomes a part of you. An awful part. But, you understand, don’t you?”

He does. More than he wants to admit. He gives a single nod, unable to find his words, hoping his face tells Hawke all they need to know.

It does. With a much happier smile gracing their lips, Hawke turns forward again and resumes their trek through Lowtown. Merrill’s hand in his own is warm, and when he finishes pouting, Anders falls back to take hold of his other. It’s nice.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading 💖
> 
> comments and kudos are a mage's best friends!


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